


City of Blinding Lights

by tristesses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/F, HP: EWE, Light Bondage, Politics, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:09:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six years down the line, and the wizarding world is in shambles; French revolutionaries have spilled the secret of their existence to Muggle society. Hermione, sent by the Ministry to work as a spy in Paris, finds a good deal more than she anticipated, and possibly saves the world in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	City of Blinding Lights

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for hp_springsmut, and posted on 4/5/2009.

Hermione has seen Paris before, in photographs and history books and a half-remembered holiday from her childhood, but she has never seen Paris like this. Tonight the sun blazes just over the horizon, spilling liquid stripes of gold and rose across the sky; it glitters off the Eiffel Tower and creates stark shadows on the nearly-vacant streets. Hermione tilts her head back, inhales deeply. The air is different here. She's in France on business, and she's always been a very practical person, but there is something in the atmosphere that is intangibly romantic, despite the crises of the last year. She can't help but breathe it in.

A fellow pedestrian passes by, giving her a wide berth, glancing at her strangely as he passes. Hermione holds his gaze until he turns away, quickening his pace.

 _"Sorcière,_ " the man hisses over his shoulder, and Hermione starts, self-consciously wrapping her cloak tightly around herself. She should change; her robes are far too conspicuous, and French wizards do their best to fit in with the Muggles now. Hermione strides down the street, too tense and overly wary, her wand nestled comfortingly in her hand, held under her cloak. She hates this feeling, the thought that anyone could potentially be a threat. _But this is the lot of the wizarding world now, thanks to le Renégat and his followers_ , she thinks grimly, and then, a little fatalistically, _and I'm the only one who can change it_.

 ****

. . .

There is little magic allowed in the tiny flat Hermione's rented for her stay in Paris. The landlady, a quill-thin witch in her mid-forties with buggy blue eyes and a strained grin, has decreed that all wizards staying in her building must keep their spells to a minimum to avoid detection. Not that Muggles could tell, anyway; the mandate is more a result of paranoia mixed with excessive caution than anything helpful. Hermione doesn't mind, though; she knows her way around Muggle devices, even if it's been a while, and can do chores by hand she normally would have finished with a flick of her wand. The thing that truly irritates her (at least for now) is the fluorescent lighting, which has the subtle sort of flicker that's her cue for a migraine. It's hard to read her packet of information, written in Harry's messy, cramped script, but she settles in at the kitchen table and spreads the file across the top. She picks up the first bit of parchment – a letter from Harry – and reads it, the only sound breaking the silence being the slight whirring of the electric light.  


>   
> _Hermione,_
> 
>  _I'm really, really sorry about this. I shouldn't have volunteered you for the job, but they asked for a witch or wizard with brains and good instincts and I said your name off the top of my head, and I guess they liked you for it, so here you are. Again, I'm really sorry. I know you think this is the chance of a lifetime, and maybe it is, but I think Ron is going to kill me for it. Can't wait till you're back so you can call him off._
> 
>  _Anyway, we don't have much about this case, and you probably have researched it already, but I'll go over the basics just as a refresher. There may be things in here you don't know, either, shocking as that may be._
> 
>  _So, 2001. The French Ministry starts to notice some weird things appearing in the Muggle tabloids, little articles like "The Magical Conspiracy" and "The Wizarding Threat to Our Nation", stuff like that, but doesn't take it seriously. Neither do the French Muggles, which is good, but then around July there start to be reports of wizards doing magic in front of Muggles – purposefully – way more than ever before. When they're brought in for questioning, all they do is babble about revolution and not being the underdog and things in a similar vein. The government assumes it's an isolated group of mad buggers, and leaves it at that._
> 
>  _Then in early 2002 – after a period of relative quiet – the Muggle paper Le Monde spills it with a headline screaming "The Wizarding Invasion" – basically an interview with a wizard who calls himself le Renégat – and all hell breaks loose. Suddenly everyone knows, not just the French but everyone, and although most countries manage to Obliviate their population before it gets out of hand, the French can't manage that. Le Renégat and his crowd keep leaking information, keeping the public aware, saying they're going to "invert the current paradigm (?? is that a proper translation? This quill needs to be re-charmed) and regain control" of France. Riots break out, hundreds are killed, both Muggle and wizard, the rest of the Muggle world thinks all the violence is due to the economy, le Renégat and his movement are gaining popularity with the wizarding world – and that's where you come in. I really hope you can do it, Hermione. No, I know you can, I just hope you can do it without getting yourself killed. But you've had the whole wizarding world on your shoulders before, yeah? You can do it again._
> 
>  _Good luck. I mean it._
> 
>  _Love,_
> 
>  _Harry_
> 
>  _P.S. Get rid of this when you're done reading._

 

"I know, Harry, you great lump," she murmurs, and folds the letter, incinerating it with a match and flushing the ashes down her sink. She sits at the table again and scrunches her hands through her frizzy hair.

"Just find the biggest threat to wizardkind since the last one you defeated, Hermione," she whispers with a quiet chuckle. "Can't be that hard, you've done it before."

She begins to shuffle through the files with a sigh, and doesn't rest until her head droops to the table, among the parchments, but sleeping amid literature isn't an odd thing for her, so it is, a little, somehow, peaceful.

 ****

. . .

 _"Pardonnez-moi, mais vous semblez familière,"_ says a voice, ringing clear through the crowd. Hermione ignores it – who would be speaking to her now? It's been weeks and she hasn't befriended anyone – and presses onward. A man glares at her from under a broad-brimmed hat; she offers a smile and receives a curt nod in return. Parisians.

 _"Excusez-moi!_ " The voice is more insistent, and closer now, a light chime by her ear, and Hermione turns without thinking to face the owner of that lovely voice.

It's a woman, tall, slim, beautiful to the point of inhumanity, clad in a white dress shimmering with enchanted crystals and gold bangles on her wrists and ankles. She studies Hermione for a moment, and asks, _"Quel est ton nom?"_

"Er – " Hermione scrambles for her pseudonym, thrown off by the woman's appearance. "Valerie Mu –"

"'Ermione?" the Grecian goddess asks incredulously. "'Ermione from 'Ogwarts?"

The silver hair and eyes click into place suddenly, and Hermione says, "Gabrielle Delacour, isn't it?"

 _"Oui,"_ says the woman – Gabrielle – a pleased expression on her face. "You remember!"

"Yes," replies Hermione, vastly uncomfortable. Gabrielle is gazing at her with glowing eyes, a slight smile playing across her lips. Beauty like hers has always discomfited Hermione; it's far too outlandish and ethereal – almost heavenly – she always feels squat and frumpy when faced with women like Gabrielle. "We were in the lake together. Harry was almost disqualified trying to save you."

"Eet's a good t'ing he did," says Gabrielle with a wink, "or we might be not having zis conversation."

Hermione laughs nervously; she's blushing, she doesn't know why. Gabrielle gives her a glance-over, takes in her sensible shoes, blue jeans, teal tee-shirt; her lip curls.

"You 'ave been in Paris for long?" she inquires, and the expression of distaste fades as she looks Hermione in the eye. "I t'ink not, or you would 'ave absorbed ze fashion by now!" She laughs, a gorgeous chiming laugh, and Hermione can't help but smile.

"Only a week," she lies. "I've just been settling in so far."

"And you are 'ere for business?" A quirk of the eyebrow. "Or pleasure?"

"Oh, I'm on holiday," Hermione quickly replies. "For a month or so. Maybe longer, depending. And what are you doing now?" Anything to change the topic – and she's curious. Why shouldn't she be?

 _"Je suis une artiste,_ " Gabrielle says. A flicker passes over her face; for a moment, her grey eyes are stormy. "Ze passion and fire of ze year past is good for inspiration."

"You mean the riots?"

"Ah, do not t'ink about zem," says Gabrielle with a dismissive wave. "Ze violence and ze blood, eet is too distracting. Tell me, 'Ermione, 'ave you seen ze sights of Paris?"

"Oh, yes," Hermione says, and her pulse speeds as Gabrielle lays a bejeweled hand on her arm. "I've been to the Eiffel Tower, and the Arc de Triomphe, but I haven't seen the catacombs yet– " She's babbling. She never babbles, she sounds like an idiot, and Gabrielle can tell, she's watching Hermione and smirking. _Unprofessional,_ she seethes quietly to herself, _quit being so bloody unprofessional._

" _Non_ , forget about zhose," says Gabrielle, and pulls Hermione closer, catching her by the waist. Her skin smells like citrus and her hair of cigarettes. "I will show you ze best place in Paris." Her lips ghost Hermione's skin, her earlobe; her eyes glitter mischievously. "If you dare."

"I'm not a very daring person – " she starts, then considers what she's done in her life (at least one thing fantastically dangerous every year for the past decade), and continues instead, " – but then again, I'm open to trying new experiences." She has to clear her throat and start again, heart whirring.

"Close enough." Gabrielle releases her, takes a few steps back, a delicate bird alight. "Come to meet me here, at eight o'clock, _oui?"_

"I don't think I can," Hermione tells her, but the words sound hollow in her mouth. She knows she'll be there, and so does Gabrielle. The half-veela just smiles and waves, a small, nearly invisible gesture, and disappears into the crowd. Hermione follows the sparkle of her dress with her eyes until she can't see it anymore.

 ****

. . .

Eight at night, and the sky is grey over Paris. Thin setting-sunlight casts a haze over the street; Hermione smoothes her skirt and nibbles on her lip, fiddles with her sleeves and collar. The slim pencil skirt and white blouse are the fanciest clothes she brought, really, and she doesn't look _bad_ , per se, but she thinks that perhaps she looks excessively clerk-like. Not that it matters, this isn't a date.

"Don't try to fool yourself, Hermione," she mutters, and looks up at the sky. A fragment of song winds through her mind: _Fini le ciel gris, et les matins moroses…oh là bas, Paris, les briques sont roses..._

"Speaking with yourself?" murmurs a voice in her ear, and she jumps. Gabrielle laughs softly in her ear, and takes her by the elbows and maneuvers her to face the half-veela.

"You dress up for me?" she inquires quietly, tracing the path of buttons marching down Hermione's blouse with a delicate hand. "I am flattered, _ma belle._ "

"You look lovely, too," replies Hermione, stiffly, scanning Gabrielle surreptitiously. The French woman is clad in an elegant long jacket of wizarding design; the clasps are stylized brass Knuts. "Am I overdressed for where we're going?"

Gabrielle smirks, the expression almost fiendish, hinting at secrets buried behind her full lips for Hermione to find. She traces the buttons on Hermione's blouse, following the trail to Hermione's stomach; the light touch, barely sensed through the fabric, leaves goosebumps rippled on Hermione's arms.

"Per'aps a leetle," she admits, "but you will not be wearing zem for long."

"I'm sorry, what – " starts Hermione, but before she can fully express her confusion (why am I here, what are you saying, how can I be doing this), Gabrielle undoes the top three buttons of her blouse, and traces her nails along Hermione's collarbone, observing her from beneath lowered lids. Hermione inhales sharply and forgets to breathe out; their thighs are flush against each other, Gabrielle's hand is set possessively at the small of her back, Hermione has taken hold of the other woman's waist (since when is she so forward?), the Parisian sun is drooping fiery rays over the horizon.

"I 'ope you 'ave recognized my intentions," murmurs Gabrielle, and presses her lips to the skin her fingers had just caressed. Hermione clutches her slim waist, transfixed by the sensation of Gabrielle's kisses peppering her skin; the woman's tongue flicks her earlobe, and Hermione – perhaps by instinct, perhaps not – turns her head to receive Gabrielle's mouth on hers. Yes, like _this_ ; lips, tongue, smooth cheek, she is so much softer than any boy Hermione's kissed, and gentle in a way wizards cannot be, enticing, delicate, she smells of oranges and tastes of humid early autumn. Yes.

 _"Viens-toi chez moi_ ," Gabrielle whispers huskily, and Hermione ignores her sensible side telling her firmly to stay on the street and finish her research – she nods, she whispers "Yes", then _"Oui,"_ and feels the pinch of Side-Along Apparation in her gut as Gabrielle takes her away.

 ****

. . .

Gabrielle is slowly stripping Hermione of her blouse and skirt, taking care to drag the tips of her fingers along the other woman's skin, while Hermione is fumbling with the buttons on Gabrielle's jacket. Each unclasped button reveals a strip of pale blue silk – a corset – and delicate white stockings, the lace just barely showing the tantalizing skin of her legs underneath.

 _"Tu est belle,”_ whispers Gabrielle, cupping Hermione's arse with her hands, and kisses her again. Hermione is conscious to every brush of skin against skin – Gabrielle's slim fingers stroking the backs of her thighs, her own hips pressing Gabrielle's legs apart wantonly, her own hands tangled in Gabrielle's hair – and the sensation of Gabrielle's lingerie, the scratch of the aquamarine corset against Hermione's nipples. She squirms in Gabrielle's arms, and the Frenchwoman slides a hand up Hermione's torso to cup a breast in her hand, brush her thumb over the nub of the nipple, and toy with it. Heat blooms in Hermione's groin; she moans into Gabrielle's mouth, and receives low laughter in return.

"Come 'ere, _ma chère,"_ Gabrielle demands, and pushes Hermione lightly to the bed. "Hands against the bedposts, _s'il te plaît."_

"Why?" asks Hermione as she does so, still anxious, still craving Gabrielle's touch.

 _"Advincio,"_ whispers the witch, and slender cords wrap themselves around Hermione's wrists, more sneaking from behind the bed to bind her ankles and hold her splay-legged.

"Gabrielle!" says Hermione, a little shocked, more than a little embarrassed (laid out for the other woman like a feast in a hall, all her flaws on display), and Gabrielle smirks evilly and strokes her inner thigh with her wand. "What are you – "

"Do not fight, 'Ermione," she says soothingly, but that wicked glint in her eye still worries the older woman. "You will enjoy zis."

Hermione can only stare at Gabrielle, her face aflame. She typically hates this, the loss of control, this vulnerability, but here and now…well, there's something to be said for surrender. Especially surrender to a woman like this – this silver-blonde seraph with a devilish smile as slim as her corseted waist, holding her wand like a whip.

She moves to Hermione's side and straddles her torso, cupping Hermione's breasts, giving her an inviting smile.

"Gabrielle – " whispers Hermione, but she's dipped her head already, tongue lapping at a nipple while her thumb traces a lazy, sensual pattern around the other. Hermione gasps, arches her back involuntarily (but now she can feel Gabrielle's heat against her stomach – oh Merlin, that's sexy), and Gabrielle chuckles.

"One of zhose girls, I t'ink?" she murmurs, and sucks Hermione's nipple into her mouth, past her teeth, just as she pinches the other; the jolt of pain makes Hermione moan, the ticklish sensation making her writhe as Gabrielle tortures her breasts with her mouth. The blonde is rocking her hips against Hermione's stomach, building friction, and she sighs with pleasure as Hermione mimics her motions.

"Good girl," she says approvingly, but moves lightly off the bed, leaving Hermione tied and panting. "I t'ink you are ready for this."

"What is it?" Gabrielle has a small metal tub in her hand; as she unscrews the lid, a smooth herbal smell with a bite of cinnamon wafts over to Hermione.

"You will see," the other witch answers, and kneels by Hermione's spread legs. The woman on the bed stops breathing for a moment – Gabrielle is _so close,_ please just a touch – and then Gabrielle's mouth along the tender skin of her inner thigh, one finger gently outlining the shape of her labia – Hermione twitches her hips but to no avail; Gabrielle jerks her hand away.

"Do not upset me," Gabrielle reprimands. "Be patient, _ma chère."_

"I just– Please–"

"Ah, _d'accord,_ since you are asking so nicely." And Gabrielle's fingers, rubbing against her slit, a cream on her fingers from the metal tub, a nail just barely brushing the bundle of nerves Hermione wants her so desperately to touch –

She takes her hand away, and Hermione moans with need. She tweaks Hermione's nipples with the same hand, licks a path up her stomach, and whispers, "Patience."

Where Gabrielle has applied the cream, stroking with her gentle fingers, begins to throb, an ache so deep it's almost unbearable. Even the pressure of the air against her exposed skin is tantalizing, the slight breeze a hint at unspeakable pleasure, and Hermione twists her hips, pushes them toward Gabrielle, tries to shut her thighs and rock and do anything to relieve the pressure –

"You want me zhere?" whispers Gabrielle, moving to Hermione's knees, and Hermione can only groan, "Oh yes, oh god yes please – " before Gabrielle's clever hands are rubbing against her, rolling against her clit, sending wave after wave of sustained pleasure sweeping through Hermione's body – this is not like any orgasm she's ever had, no, this is – this is _constant_ , this is so overwhelming it feels like she's going to die, she's crying out hoarsely, Gabrielle's name over and over, writhing against her bonds, and just when she thinks she's going to black out Gabrielle moves, straddling her torso backwards, arse in front of Hermione's face, and she takes her cue, lapping at Gabrielle's sweet-salty flesh, feeling the other woman's juddering breaths as she rocks against her mouth – and Gabrielle, oh Gabrielle kissing and sucking and nibbling at her cunt, fingers thrusting inside, arching to touch that sweet spot so deep and sucking at her clit, oh Hermione can't hold out anymore, she is screaming and gasping and the cords binding her to the bed are digging in to her wrists and ankles, bracelets of bruises (a fashion statement she doesn't want to make) but she just doesn't care because all the matters right now is _here –_

  
**. . .**   


Weeks pass, weeks where Hermione barely sleeps. In between detective work and research are trysts with Gabrielle (clad in corsets, smiling, tying Hermione to the bed and to her heart); she barely has enough energy to write Harry heavily encoded progress reports (but she does them perfectly, of course, she's Hermione Granger, after all). She's getting closer to narrowing down who le Renégat is, thanks to Gabrielle and her group of bohemians – _artistes_ clad in extravagant wizarding robes, the type of people who make a living reading tarot for Muggles in daylight and sculpting surrealistic masterpieces and chain-smoking at night. Most of them are involved with le Renégat's movement in some way, fringe players who mainly sit in close-knit groups at pubs and pontificate about wizarding supremacy.

No real threat there, she thinks, but a good source of information; and Gabrielle, passing the rumors and whispers to Hermione, is the go-between. Their arrangement is perfect, until Gabrielle tells her of a meeting to be held in Paris, a meeting where le Renégat himself is to be in attendance, smuggled covertly from the French countryside to address his loyal followers. Time is wearing out, and their carefully crafted exchange of kisses for secrets isn't enough now.

"I need more," says Hermione, sipping her coffee gingerly, cozy in bed. It's black, which she doesn't care for much, but Gabrielle doesn't have any milk or sugars at hand, and neither of them is willing to leave the warmth of their twisted sheets to go find some. At least it's caffeine; Merlin knows she could use some.

"More? _De quoi?"_ inquires Gabrielle. She kicks her way out of the blankets and points her toes at the ceiling, either stretching or admiring her shapely legs in their striped black stockings.

"More information." Hermione follows the curve of her lover's legs with her eyes; she senses Gabrielle watching her, a smirk on her angelic lips. The blonde strokes her bare stomach, inching her fingers down to the bows decorating her stockings. She begins to roll them down her thighs, delicately, careful not to tear the material. "I'm so close to catching him – I can _feel_ it. I just need definite evidence. Is there any way I could, I don't know, come to one of your meetings maybe? I need to see his face."

"Per'aps," Gabrielle concedes, then rears up into a kneeling position, her stockings now in her hands. "But only eef you promise to be a very, very nice girl."

 _"Pas de problème,"_ says Hermione, and grins at Gabrielle's exaggerated grimace. "My accent isn't that bad, is it? Anyway, I'm not the one who's got a problem being a good girl."

Gabrielle winks. "Eef I am a very, very bad girl, do you promise t'at you will punish me?"

Hermione darts forward, takes one of the stockings from Gabrielle's hand, and wraps the silky black material around Gabrielle's wrists, fumbling as they share deep teeth-clacking kisses; she finishes the knot and flips the blonde to her stomach, pressing kisses down her spine. Gabrielle gasps, then giggles as Hermione lips at the blonde curls at the crux of her thighs.

"I do not know eef you can be so brutal as I would like," she whispers, and sighs, arching against Hermione's mouth, those quick knowledgeable fingers. "Ah, 'Ermione…"

"I think I can figure something out," murmurs Hermione against Gabrielle's soft skin. An odd sensation buzzes under her skin, the same one she feels when she aces a test or chairs a committee, but mixed with a bite of lust – it's echoed in the figure of this beautiful woman moaning under the pads of her fingers. Hermione nips at the soft skin of Gabrielle's arse, and loves the little gasp she pulls from the other woman's throat; she teases the half-veela with long, smooth strokes, two fingers sliding wetly through the slick she's worked up, and caresses the blonde's breasts with her free hand, wraps a chunk of her gorgeous silver hair around her fingers and pulls tightly enough to bring tears to the other woman's eyes; Gabrielle is thrusting against her hand now, round bottom in the air; Hermione can't help but smack it, and Gabrielle moans, panting in soft growls of pleasure-pain, _"Baise-moi, oh merde, 'Ermione, je t'aime, je t'aime, oui – "_ until she climaxes, grinding her hips against Hermione's hand and whining with her face shoved against the pillows.

"Good girl," says Hermione, unable to hide the grin in her voice. Gabrielle, panting on the sheets, twists to look at her with a decidedly devilish expression in her eyes. She's wound her way out of her ties, as Hermione finds out when the other woman pounces on her, laughing, prying her knees apart and falling between them with little finesse but a great deal of enthusiasm. Hermione's queries are all but forgotten until afterward, nearly dozing in the candlelight after stripping the sheets from the bed (somehow the coffee got knocked onto the bed – Hermione still maintains it was Gabrielle, and certainly not her flailings), Gabrielle murmurs sleepily, "I can 'elp you."

"Hmm?" says Hermione in response, nearly asleep.

 _"Demain._ Ze meeting," says Gabrielle. "I can get you in."

  
**. . .**   


Tonight is the blackest night Hermione has seen in Paris, the moon shrunk and shrouded behind looming dark clouds. Gabrielle walks several paces ahead of her, a caveat she insisted upon ("I do not want you to be 'urt," she said ominously.) She follows the woman through dark corridors and ugly cramped alleys, guided by her tresses, stolen moonlight in the pitch streets.

Gabrielle glances over her shoulder, just barely, the tiniest gesture, and tilts her head slightly; she slides clandestinely into a wizarding pub, waved in by a bouncer, the door closing just as Hermione sneaks up behind her. The bouncer stares at her, his lumpy face casting odd shadows in the pale moonlight, familiar, too familiar – he extends a hairy hand to her, as if demanding money, and under his robe she can see the tip of a snake hissing, wrapped around a skull. Death Eater. Those two words still strike her deep, in some internal organ that only survivors of war have. Something jolts in her body and her pulse begins to hammer; her throat is wet like paste and her eyes are clouded; she shakes with adrenaline as he tells her to state her business.

"I'm here for the meeting," she says, "an English sympathizer."

He doesn't believe her. "Need papers," he grunts.

She scrambles, can't think of anything. "I don't have any," she says finally, "I was sent by a friend – the woman who just came in – Gabrielle." Saying her name to this man feels like dirt clods in her throat.

He eyes her for a moment; she tries to rearrange her features into a trustworthy expression. Finally, he grunts and jerks his head at the door; she's in.

Gabrielle, waiting at the stair, looks so suddenly young in the half-light, all moon eyes and delicate limbs, barely more than a child. Hermione feels aged and creaky, even though she's trembling with adrenaline, fingers clamped about her wand, ready to summon Aurors at a moment's notice – Gabrielle is so innocent, for all her pretenses at worldliness; she's never been in a skirmish, never mind a battle like this one, where the Aurors will be all sharp teeth and rage at these so-called revolutionaries. This is what happens when you spill secrets, but Hermione doesn't want Gabrielle to have to see it.

They venture up the staircase, skinny oaken steps leading to a door where Gabrielle uses her teeth to rip her cuticle and smear the resulting blood bubble against the wood. Inside is a small crackling fire, lanky young witches and wizards sitting at close little tables together, _tête-à-tête_ , with ominous figures of older men – Death Eaters, most likely – flocking the edges of the room. Presiding over the tableau is, bizarrely enough, the same lumpy Death Eater warding the entryway. Polyjuice, Hermione supposes, although which is which defeats her.

"Is that– " Hermione whispers, her voice low and scratchy in her throat, and nods toward the doppelganger.

Gabrielle does not answer. She seizes Hermione's hand, pulls her close; her palm is clammy, her eyes on the borderline of fear.

"'Ermione," she whispers, then swallows, starts again. "When zey come, you will protect me?"

"Always," Hermione replies, and is slightly surprised by the truth in her words. Gabrielle holds her gaze for a long moment, then nods quickly, jerks her head toward the Death Eater.

 _"C'est lui,"_ , she confirms.

Hermione signals Harry with an incantation, her wand glowing fierce blue, and everything explodes.

  
**. . .**   


_The bust is a blur in her mind and memory, which she's glad of, a swift-paced mélange of sex and violence – Aurors and their French equivalents crash down the ceiling; they slam through the old creaking wood and raze the building to the ground as they fling hexes and curses at the revolutionaries; faced with these people, trained to kill and maim with precision, they scatter and try to flee, bleating for aid, crying, and it's hard to believe but they're just kids, kids like Tom Riddle could have been, nineteen or twenty, smarter than they should be, too immature to understand the enormity of what they've done, too grandiose to fit in the tight little boxes their world has made for them. Even Gabrielle, fighting at her side, firing upon her own people, is just a child. But she doesn't think about that, not yet, just focuses on the blood on the ground and the body count flashing before her eyes – the havoc these children have wreaked, the lives they've destroyed.)_

  
**. . .**   


Gabrielle stands on a familiar Parisian street, watching the sun sink below the horizon, spilling bloody stains of gold and rose across the sky. It has been two weeks since last she saw the sun set; two weeks of interrogations, statements, paperwork, suppressing her emotions but never omitting details. She is not the type of person to do so.

Hermione sits on the curb beside her. She doesn't say a word, doesn't have to. She knows what Gabrielle's going through; she's dealt with it herself, many times more than this one, and she's already cried out her rage and frustration. But even when Gabrielle cries, Hermione doesn't move, just lets her sob it all out, into her hands, the whole disgusting deal (tears, snot, shuddering whimpers). It's an exorcism of sorts, on the same street they met, back when she was still so youthful and naïve, parading around as if she was entitled to some glory due to the lucky chance of her birthright. Muggles stop and stare at them on the street, but Gabrielle doesn't care; let them. They will never understand the things she's seen; the only person that can even grasp an infinitesimal speck of the horror she's gone through (her friends falling before her wand – mon Dieu) is perched on the curb, cradling her in her arms. Oh, Hermione. _C'est une amour que ne cesse jamais._

"All done?" Hermione asks eventually, when Gabrielle's sobs have died down and she is still, wrapped in Hermione's embrace, gazing at the deep grey sky. Her words are a comfort, vibrant when all other sounds seem hollow.

"Oui," she says, and clears her throat. Hermione stands with her, and they cling to each other. She feels slightly tattered, but she can always be patched. _"J'ai fini."_


End file.
